


fools rush in

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Ariadne thinks she's clever, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariadne tries her hand at matchmaking. Her efforts culminate in a rather unexpected result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fools rush in

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a fill at inception-kink.

If Ariadne had to describe herself to a potential employer, she would choose her words wisely. As it turns out, Cobb isn’t so much a potential employer as he is a criminal with limited options, who thinks drawing a maze qualifies as a job interview, so she cheekily goes with _ambitious and highly imaginative with a proclivity for trouble_. Curiously, it’s these exact three qualities that have landed her in circumstances that may or may not be spiraling out of her control. 

To be fair, it’s not Ariadne’s fault that Cobb’s point man and forger are inexplicably oblivious to their mutual attraction and blatantly dismissive of her good intentions. Arthur was clearly made for Eames and vice versa, and she really only wants to nudge them along. (However, if push comes to shove, she has no qualms about shoving hard.) 

She’s also kept the matchmaking to a one-woman scheme in case it comes off as unprofessional, although she’s still unclear about the meaning of professionalism amongst criminals. She imagines there must be a code of conduct, maybe something primeval like an eye for an eye. In any case, she hopes it’s silent on the matter of romantic involvement between colleagues, else it would really throw a wrench into her plans. 

She’s not a romantic per se. She’s never believed in love at first sight, never dreamed about her wedding, and would certainly never watch a film that could be entirely or partially categorized as a romantic comedy. But there’s just something about Arthur and Eames, about the way they circle each other like they’re built on the same axis, that stirs up warm, gushy feelings inside her chest. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that she’s a little obsessed and constantly distracted from her work but, hey, sacrifices must be made in the name of love.

*

The day she sets her plan in motion, she and Arthur are alone in the warehouse. The central air is blowing out through the vents, sounding like a small-scale natural disaster, so she raises her voice to be heard over the din.

“Eames is really good at what he does.”

Arthur’s plugging away at his computer, looking back and forth between the two monitors, fingers moving across the keyboard with near inhuman efficiency. 

“He’s the best.”

She purses her lips and then tries again.

“The two of you have worked together before, huh?”

“On quite a few jobs, yea.”

She taps her foot in exasperation. When Arthur’s not working, he’s pleasurable company. When he is. Well.

“You two have a friendly sort of rivalry going.”

Arthur finally turns away from his computer. Ariadne waits with bated breath.

“I guess we do. He thinks he needs to keep me on my toes, the insufferable twat.” 

It’s an affectionate sort of insult, devoid of mockery, and in that moment Arthur sounds remarkably _British_ , as though he’s unwittingly taken on Eames’s lilt and speech patterns. Ariadne’s tempted to point her finger and say, _A-ha! You’re in love with him, aren’t you!_ , but she figures that might be jumping the gun a little. 

“He’s quite the charmer when he wants to be.” The air turns off in the middle of her sentence and her voice carries across the warehouse at a startling volume. 

Arthur’s eyebrows quirk, hands pausing over the keys. 

“I didn’t think he’d be your type, Ariadne.” He schools his expression carefully and she thrills at the thought that he might be the jealous type.

“Oh, I’m open-minded. And his crooked teeth are kind of endearing,” she says offhandedly.

She’s sorely disappointed, although not in the least deterred, when Arthur hums distractedly and returns to his work.

*

Ariadne’s forced to put her machinations on hold for the next few days as the job starts to call for long hours and the shade of Cobb’s late wife becomes the elephant in the room that everyone skirts in ever-widening circles. So she takes the time to observe the two men over her sprawling toy models, study the patterns and nuances of their dance. 

She used to think that every person had a singular, self-contained design, but now she’s no longer sure. She looks at Arthur and Eames and sees a seamless picture with no superfluous shades or misplaced strokes to speak of. She wonders how it is that two people can be so aware of each other and at once so ignorant. That she hasn’t developed high blood pressure or some other slowly debilitating, chronic condition is nothing short of a miracle.

Still she finds it pleasant, soothing even, to watch them when she needs a break from architectural paradoxes and homicidal projections. Eames has a habit of adjusting Arthur’s tie when it’s crooked, usually in the middle of a conversation, and Arthur never bats an eye. Arthur, meanwhile, has a knack for losing pens, so he borrows the one Eames always tucks into his breast pocket, and chews on the end. Eames never seems to mind. Moments like these lull Ariadne into a sense of contentment that eases her through the day until the two men go their separate ways at night and she remembers that their paths converge out of necessity, nothing more and nothing less.

*

Shit hits the fan, metaphorically speaking, the day they do their run-through of the first level she’s built with the precision of a true perfectionist. They’ve only just gone under and Cobb already looks impressed. She thinks he ain’t seen nothing yet; she was especially resourceful with the layout of the hotel on level two, wrapping the space in on itself so the rooftop exit leads straight to the ground floor. 

It’s when they walk past Lexington and 59th that Ariadne sees projections of Arthur and Eames, _her_ projections of Arthur and Eames, and unluckily, so does everyone else. The real Arthur and Eames stare in perplexed fascination at their doppelgangers, strolling down the sidewalk, holding hands and smiling at each other adoringly. Dream-Arthur cups his partner’s jaw and pulls him in for a kiss, a peck on the mouth, really, but it’s epic all the same. Or, well, that’s the word of Ariadne’s choosing. And honestly, she’s not so much mortified as she is hopeful that Arthur and Eames will take a hint. 

The timer wakes them up a moment later. 

“That was—interesting,” is all Yusuf says before he cleans off his glasses and returns to his compounds, looking vaguely disturbed.

Arthur and Eames are already back to work. Cobb’s frowning a little when he pulls out his cannula and guides the line back into the spool.

“Ariadne,” he looks at her oddly, “you know that—”

“What? Did I do something wrong?” 

His head is slightly turned and she follows the direction of his gaze to—Eames, who’s absorbed in the contents of a thick folder, periodically flipping through the pages with neat flicks of his wrist. 

Cobb clears his throat. “No, nothing wrong. The first level is outstanding. We’ll test the second level tomorrow, as soon as you’re finished. We don’t have much time left before the funeral.”

“It just needs a few more tweaks. I’ll be done tonight.” She looks over to her left, where Eames is currently leaned over Arthur at the computer, cheek brushing Arthur’s ear as he says something too quietly for Ariadne to hear. Arthur’s wearing one of those smiles that bloom when he seems to be least conscious of it, and she thinks that time is certainly of the essence.

*

“—stop stringing her along. The poor girl’s at her wit’s end—”

Eames is perched on Arthur’s desk when she walks in, buttoning one of Arthur’s cuffs. Two steaming cups of coffee sit by his thigh.

“Whom are you stringing along?” she asks without her usual morning greeting because she suddenly has an inkling. 

They freeze momentarily at the sound of her voice. 

“Ariadne! We were just—that is, ah—”

And then she sees it, glistening smugly on Eames’s fourth finger. 

“Wait. You’re married? To—”

Arthur raises his left hand and wiggles his fingers, looking a tad guilty.

“To _each other_?” Her head reels at the revelation. She realizes she should be tap dancing off the walls or something, but the irony is so absurd, so embarrassing, so, so—and then she loses her train of thought because Eames is slipping his fingers through Arthur’s and grinning like a fool in _love_. She surreptitiously checks her totem.

“Guilty as charged. We meant to tell you, Ari, but it was wicked fun to see you frustrated and scheming.”

“Think of it as an initiation,” Arthur offers generously.

Ariadne crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ll have you know I’m the vengeful type. I gotta ask, though,” she smiles slowly, slyly, “who was the blushing bride?”

To her utter delight, they look at each other and reply in unison without missing a beat.

“He was.”


End file.
